Akira: Walking With Gods

Computer update: my power cord will be arriving sometime in the next few days via expedited mail so, by Monday, previous blogs will be updated with pictures. The computer I am borrowing does not have an SD card slot and I also don't want to muck up my roommate's hard drive with my shots. If I can get my log-in at the school to work, then pictures will be up even sooner. For now, getting the text taken care of is my main priority.

So, "walking with gods." Well, a bit of background on Delphi and my previous relationship to it: on the seventh day of each month the revered Oracle of Delphi--also known as Pythia--bathed in the holy waters of the Castalian Spring. The chosen Oracle was a maiden medium whose body was used as a vessel to convey the holy messages of the god Apollo. She resided at the temple at Delphi and lived a privileged life (all things considered). Pythia only served the people a few days out of the hottest months of the year; nonetheless, pilgrims--wealthy and famous, notorious and poor, from Greece to as far as the royal house of Persia--came to consult the Oracle and receive Apollo's mesage. At the height of Pythia's popularity, three maidens rotated through the sacred duties, sitting on a tripod above a ravine, channeling the Light God and spewing forth is prophecies. Scholarship supposes a potent ethyline gas crept from the crevasse and intoxicated Pythia, inspiring her reverent visions. If that is true, the gas has long since run dry.

Two years ago, I wrote an extensive research essay on Pythia and ancient female rituals in Greco-Roman society, so yesterday's visit to Delphi was nothing short of incredible. It was the culmination of all my knowledge, made manifest in marble and red clay. Words cannot do justice of the sights I saw though, for now, I will tell one tale:

Towards the end of the day, as we clamored towards the bus for dinner, I wandered over to a small fountain Finitsis had pointed out earlier. He had pulled me aside specifically, with a knowing smile I've come to associate with good things. The basin was simple and innocuous, a little rock spout washed orange with the continuous flow of water. Clear water poured in a small but steady stream. The droplets flying from the spout twinkled and splattered and made a soft gurgling coo.

The water flowed from the Castalian Spring. The spring in which Pythia bathed. The spring where poets went to gather inspiration. The place pilgrims to Delphi ritually washed their hair. I was on the sacred land of Apollo. His chosen ground on which he built his glorious house of worship. The view beheld by hundreds of thousands of eyes belonging to men and women, hoping to taste the divine power imparted to Pythia. The trees who have watched all manner of humankind pass. Have whispered behind their hands, laughing at the mythology of man. How belief dies throughout the ages. How the stones crumble. How the stories fade to ash. In the dirt, Apollo's blood pulses, turning the dusty ground amber. In the Castalian water, his eyes reflect.

I dipped my hand under the spout, collected water on my palms, and ran it all along my forehead and into my hair. I bathed, as best I could, in the walking water of the gods.